


Here Comes the Sun

by Aphidity



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bodyguard AU, Discrimination, Inequality, M/M, Politics, grey morality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-03-26 22:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13867158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aphidity/pseuds/Aphidity
Summary: On a planet haunted by war and fuel shortages, Starscream has been assigned a function in Cybertronian society that he is expected to fulfill. Rodimus has also been assigned a function in Cybertronian society that he is expected to fulfill.Too bad that's not a priority for either of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU where Starscream winds up as Rodimus' bodyguard. Things go pear-shaped.

Starscream’s engine rumbled in frustration.

He ignored the dirty looks that got him. Squeezing into a crowded shuttle for a bumpy, groon-long ride was not his idea of a good time. Especially since free time was so scarce in the Academy. He could have been setting up the next battery of experiments, or barricading himself in the Academy’s archives to consolidate his research, or snatching a valuable consultation with that visiting professor from Tetrahex. Could have been making much more productive use of his time if his stupid slagging batchmates hadn’t _insisted_ that he join them.

“C’mon,” Skywarp had whined, “It’s the Ascent! You _can’t_ be working then, Star, it’s illegal. I’m sure of that. There’s a rule, or a law, or something. Primus himself said, ‘Thou shalt not work during the Ascent.’”

“He said _no_ such thing,” Starscream retorted. “You just pulled that out of your tailpipe.”

“He totally did!” His ridiculous trinemate insistently flicked the shoulder pauldron of a nearby Seeker. “Sunstorm, back me up on this.”

Sunstorm’s golden wings twitched in annoyance as he shifted out of Skywarp’s reach. “Actually, Primus declared that the Ascent of Zerys was to be dedicated as a cycle of celebration. When Zerys proved the purity of his spark, mastered the winds and lifted himself off the ground in the First Flight, he demonstrated to the rest of Cybertron that-”

“That faith could overcome all barriers, we get it, no need for an impromptu sermon. But see, it’s meant to be a _ce-le-bra-_ tion. You-” and here Starscream snarled in offense at the accusing digit jabbed in his face “-need to come join us.”

“No. I’m busy.” Tricoloured arms folded in front of his cockpit. He stared his trinemate down, firm and unyielding. The Ascent was the most major holiday celebrated in Vos, being meant to honour flighted frames. A more pious mech like Sunstorm would want to spend the cycle in prayer and meditation, but Starscream was more pragmatic about the upcoming holiday. The prospect of one whole cycle free was rare in the Academy’s hectic schedule, and the activities Starscream had planned were not exactly endorsed by the Academy.

Unfortunately, his other trinemate didn’t seem to have the same idea.

Thundercracker had that quiet frown when he was about to bring up a devastatingly _reasonable_ point. “Skywarp’s right, you know. You skipped the First Flight celebrations last vorn. It’d be nice if you could join us, just this once. As a trine.” A tactical pause. “It’s already our last vorn in the Academy.”

For somebody who didn’t speak much, Thundercracker had a knack for slicing straight to the spark.

Damn him. Damn Skywarp. Damn them for being right. They were cold-constructed, all Seekers were. But as students in the War Academy, they had some semblance of independence that most other cold-constructs didn’t enjoy. They had their batchmates, they had an education (limited as it was), and compared to the average MTO, they had _time_.

That was running out.

Once he and his trine graduated, they would be assigned wherever the Senate saw fit. Never mind that Seekers functioned best in a trine, that they had been trained together, that they had been brought online together. In the end, they were still cold-constructs, meant to serve Cybertron in the most efficient way possible. It was entirely possible that he’d never see his trinemates for vorns once they were assigned, and almost certainly he would never meet any other batchmate outside of his trine.

This last vorn was all their batch had before being tossed into the heaving machinery of Cybertron to fulfil their function. This was the last vorn to indulge in interests that were not strictly related to the role they were brought online to play. After this, they would be valued solely by efficiency, productivity, and most of all, compliance. That left a twist in Starscream’s spark and a bad taste in his mouth. Frag that. Nobody was going to make and break him like a disposable drone.

The battered streets of Vos flashed by outside the fibreglass capsule of the shuttle. Once, the spires of pre-war Vos housed millions of flyer aeries. Now, only the shattered bases marked the once-proud towers. Even now, the only hints of festivity in the streets was the odd banner and extremely congested traffic. Not many mechs in Vos could afford a ‘good time’ more prestigious than a modest pub crawl, and fewer still had spare shanix to throw away on disposable decorations.

Starscream checked his chronometer, then flipped on to his HUD. No sense in wasting time, even if he was stuck in a crowded shuttle.

He flipped through the task list on his HUD, screening for anything that he could do while waiting in the shuttle. While most of his pet project required extensive laboratory work, some literature review could be done by accessing the infonet over his HUD. The extra bandwidth and processing required would most certainly give him a nasty helmache, but since he was going to be in close proximity with the rowdy hooligans that were his batchmates, a helmache was a given anyway.

This was all their fault.

A blinking icon at the bottom of his HUD alerted him that his research partner was online. Skyfire was a space shuttle from Altihex whom Starscream met at a geology convention back in his third vorn at the Academy. Happily, Skyfire’s expertise in space travel and astronomy overlapped with his own research interests, and he was blessed with enough patience to rival a saint. Opportunities like that came once in a lifetime. Starscream had wasted no time in courting the shuttle over to his project as a partner.

A cheery blip indicated one unread message from Skyfire. He opened it and read:

_SF: Hello. Didn’t expect to see you online at this time. Thought you’d be in the lab._

Starscream rolled his eyes and composed his reply.

_SS: I got dragged out by my batch for the Ascent and am now stuck in the SLAGGING SLOWEST TRAFFIC._

_SF: That sucks. Are they going anywhere special?_

_SS: Just down to Gearbox. Not like we can afford anything else._

_SF: It is nice to spend some time with your batchmates though. Especially on the Ascent._

_SS: Not when they’re going to be pains in the aft and delaying my plans for the project._

_SF: The project will wait. I think it’s more important to take a break with your friends. I’ll check in with you again later. Have a good Ascent of Zerys._

And with that, Skyfire logged off. Just as well, since the shuttle was pulling up at the intended destination. Starscream shoved his way past the surge of mechs alighting and boarding the shuttle, then headed further down the main street.

Gearbox was a hole-in-the-wall that was well-known to all Academy students. There was a direct shuttle from the campus, prices were reasonable and the fuel was better than potable. The façade was the same chipped paint as the surrounding buildings. The only difference was that the doors were a more welcoming plexiglass than the usual blast-proof steel grilles. Starscream pushed past the heavy doors and set to finding his cohorts inside.

Inside, Gearbox hummed with more than just its usual Academy patrons. Mechs from all walks of life were enjoying themselves on the Ascent, even grounders were happy to take the day off to celebrate. A wide screen took up an entire wall, live-telecasting the official procession and parades down at Iacon. All cities celebrated the Ascent of Zerys because Cybertronians loved ostentation, and Iacon outdid all the rest.

Skyfire had once mentioned that Vos had always been the heart of the Ascent up until the war. Millions of flight frames would make the pilgrimage to the city, which according to legend, had been founded by Zerys himself. The mass of the migration blotted out the sun, back when Cybetron still orbited a main star. Starscream himself couldn’t see the image in his processor. Civil war had so wrecked infrastructure that out of the original eleven quarters of Old Vos, only three could be re-populated. The rest were choked with rubble. Nothing short of terraforming could make them fit for habitation again.

Rebuilding after the war that flattened Old Vos was a painfully slow and long slog. The Senate had focused resources on construction of the Council Seat and restored the War Academy to a functional status, but the rest of Vos was still a skeletonised husk. The tall spires, once meant to exalt, now lay rusting gently into oblivion.

But Iacon had escaped the war mostly unscathed. Iacon, first among the city-states, was the seat of the Primacy, the home of the Senate. The energon mines around the city were still productive, unlike Tarn’s and Nyon’s. Iaconians could of course afford to indulge in an obscenely elaborate procession. Traditionally, the Ascent of Zerys was observed for twelve whole cycles, with each cycle dedicated to an aspect of faith revealed to Zerys by Primus himself. Most cities only acknowledged the final and most important day as the official date, because twelve cycles of holidays would lead to production grinding to a halt.

Iacon, on the other hand, was secure in its resources and steeped in the ancient traditions of the Primacy. Only Iacon still observed the full twelve cycles of the Ascent, honouring each day with a parade accompanied by pyrotechnics. All the extravagance reached a climax on the twelfth cycle in the form of the Grand Primal Procession, where the Prime himself would lead the parade and give speeches. The speeches were usually dull and nobody really gave a scrap. The parade, on the other hand, was very, very shiny, and therefore was broadcasted to the whole of Cybertron for ease of appreciation.

His batchmates had commandeered one of the better seats. Four trines were holed up in a large booth in direct line-of-vision of the screen. Wings pricked and wiggled in welcome when they spotted Starscream picking his way over.

Skywarp barked orders to five different mechs over the table like a seasoned field commander. “No, Star, you’re not allowed to sit next to Acidstorm. The two of you will wind up in your own nerd science-y bubble and miss everything on screen. TC, scoot over so he can sit over here instead. Hey, Ramjet! Toss the menu over to Star. And for Primussake, Dirge, get that high-grade tower out of the way, I can’t see scrap from here.”

Starscream wedged himself beside Thundercracker and slung his wings over the back of the couch. Thundercracker shuffled slightly away to give him more space and handed the order pad over. “Long ride? You just missed the start of the procession.”

“D’you think this vorn will be as good a show as last vorn’s? Last vorn’s aerial display is pretty hard to beat.”

“Naw mech, the fireworks from five vorns back is still my favourite.”

“Hey, who’s that red bot right up front? That doesn’t look like Optimus Prime.”

“Isn’t that the new Prime? Or was it Prime-to-be? Y’know, the next guy in line!”

“I thought Primes are only called when the old one gets deactivated?” Starscream asked as he punched in an order for a cube of high grade and copper wafers. “Two Primes seem a tad excessive, even for Iaconians.”

“I’ve never heard of two Primes co-ruling before either,”Acidstorm shrugged. “My guess is that the Senate had something to do with it. Who knows what they’re planning?”

“Huh.” Starscream tossed the pad aside and leaned in to get a better look at the screen. Iaconians crowded round the perimeter of the Great Temple of Primus, separated from the temple courtyard by barricades and a healthy sprinkling of Enforcers on crowd control duty. The Iaconians didn’t seem too restless, and were more interested in cheering and tossing handfuls of coloured powder into the air.

Starscream snorted. Iaconians sure had fuel and credits to waste.

The Primal Vanguard was arrayed in impressive contingents before the Great Temple itself. All guards stood proudly at attention, waiting for the command to begin the parade. But the bot performing the ceremonial inspection was not one that Starscream recognised.

He was a full head shorter than the imposing bulk of Optimus Prime, and much more lightly built. Fire-red and sun-gold plating caught the camera lights as he moved, no, _danced_ about the courtyard from one contingent to another. Instead of a suitably dignified procession, he was skipping lightly along a meandering path, weaving around imaginary obstacles and demonstrating the agility in that lithe frame. The Primal Vanguard, at rigid attention, seemed almost comical by contrast.

Starscream attempted an intelligent comment. “He doesn’t _look_ like a Prime.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 3am and I'm eating peanut butter out of a jar. I am not very sure how good this chapter is, and would really appreciate feedback. I hope you've enjoyed reading it though, and thank you!

Thundercracker’s wings flicked. “Yeah, even some of the Primacy don’t think much of him. Did you see the article the Lord Protector published last megacycle? ‘Irresponsible’, ‘reckless’, ‘narcissistic’, and ‘immature’ were some of the nicer things he called the new Prime.”

“Then what was the _point_ of placing him as a Prime?”

The blue Seeker shrugged. “You go ask the Senate, I have no idea.”

Sunstorm didn’t deign to take his optics off the screen to address them, but his voice was firm and sure. “Rodimus Prime was chosen by Primus to bear the Matrix to lead Cybertron. That makes him as worthy a Prime as any of the Thirteen.”

“Oh, wait. Rodimus Prime? That name sounds familiar.” Acidstorm perked up from his idle straw-swirling. “Must have came across it in the news or something.”

“Hey, I’ve heard of him!” Ramjet hissed in awe. “ _He goes meteor-surfing_. I read it in the gossip column last decacycle!”

Dirge sighed dreamily as his optics went suspiciously dim.

“ _You_ wish you could take off without tripping over your own tailfins!”

Not particularly eager to listen to the Coneheads squabble yet again, Starscream rerouted his attention back to the wide-screen.

The camera panned over the Primal Vanguard. Burnished plating shone and gleamed in blue and gold, the colours of the Primacy. Thirteen contingents were present in the odd rhomboid divisions so beloved by Iacon, forming a thirteen-rayed star when viewed from above.

Skywarp gestured at the screen with a half-eaten copper wafer. “S’stupid formation. One good missile from above, right down the centre – boom! They’re spare parts.” He ignored Sunstorm’s glare to steal more wafers. “It’d never work in real life.”

Starscream flicked his wing.

Acidstorm, on the other hand, was squinting more intently at the screen. “They’re almost all the same height and build. Do you think they’re CC?”

Surprise practically rang from Thundercracker's pricked wings. “Cold-construct? Would anyone let a CC into the Primal Vanguard? I thought it was just frame mods and paint. Can’t imagine the Vanguard recruiting cold-constructs.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Acidstorm sighed.  Starscream caught a flicker of sheepishness in the green mech’s field as he glanced over to Sunstorm, who was rigidly fixated on the screen.

The Vanguard stood firm as they endured the Prime’s joke of an inspection. Starscream noted that the increased cheers of the watching Iaconians in contrast. They seemed ready enough to forgive this new Prime’s lack of dignity, despite what the Lord Protector thought. Interesting.

He had to give it to the Primeling, though. That bot really knew how to work the crowd. His optics were sure and steady, as if catching the gaze of someone in the crowd, but not uncomfortably intense. Each smile was accompanied by an expressive spoiler wiggle, appearing endearingly genuine and saving him from the fake plastic smiles some Senators suffered from. Golden servoes waved at the crowd and grasped soldier's servoes in salute, pulling those he interacted with even closer. This Prime thrived in the glare of public view.

The camera switched to a closeup of the Prime as he went on from one contingent to the next, circling the formation as he greeted each one. This close, viewers could see the gorgeous detailing and decoration on his armour.

His helm crest flared like the rays of a sun. Gold filigree snaked up and around his limbs, chased by facets of ruby that blazed in the light every time he turned. Fiery biolights glowed around his optics and waist, and his spoiler swept high and proud as any Seeker’s. Intricately stencilled glyphs and an exquisite ceremonial meshwork cloak testified to the effort and expense that Iacon lavished on their Primes.

All that faded to insignificance compared to his dazzling smile. This zoomed in, Starscream could see that some cosmetician had outlined his lipplates in crimson and gold flakes. The contrast between this and silvery dentae only served to emphasise how much this Prime smiled during the ceremony. 

Instead of returning to the pedestal where he started, Rodimus Prime apparently had other plans. His cloak swirled out behind him like a gout of flame as he took in the whole court with a nimble spin. The Iaconians went absolutely berserk when their Prime held out his arms in a half-embrace. Or to make himself look bigger. Or to fend them off. Starscream couldn’t tell.

A more dignified Prime like Optimus or Nova would have kept their assured tread, perhaps waved to the crowd as required. This fool nearly bounced off the walls with his energetic prancing. Starscream would have thought that his jaw was dislocated from how wide that grin was.

And yet, how the Iaconians cheered.

On the other hand, the large blue aide chasing after the Prime appeared to be on the verge of a panic attack, if the unhealthy paleness of his optics were anything to go by. The way he swung his ceremonial hammer posed a serious risk to the helms of unwary civilians nearby, especially as he attempted to subtly herd the Prime back to the prescribed position without much success. The Enforcers along the perimeter had their work cut out for them, having to calm the excited crowd from being in such close proximity with their Prime.

Starscream folded his arms and snorted at the farce. “Popularity over substance. This is the sort of thing that wrecks governments. Not that our current one isn’t already a morass of incompetence and outright malignancy.”

The table responded to his political insight with resounding silence.

He glanced at his trinemates out of the side of his optics. “Skywarp, shut your mouth before you drool all over the table.”

His halfwit of a trinemate sputtered back to consciousness. “Frag me, he’s hotter than those slagging meteors-”

Primus below, Starscream was half a klik from knocking some sense into that thick helm. “That’s not the point! The impact of Iacon’s political leadership on the whole of Cyb-”

“Do your optics even fragging work, Scream? Did you see that? _Don’t you see that aft?”_

“Maybe if you started thinking with your processor and not your ‘facing array, you’d- Mmmph!”

Thundercracker looked over at his two grappling trinemates and whapped them both upside the helm. “Shut the frag up and enjoy the view. I can’t hear what’s going on on-screen!”

Skywarp slid back down his seat with a sulk, but Starscream’s stubborn hissing earned himself a Look from Thundercracker. One part stern disapproval mixed with another part silent disappointment, added to the iron frown of an unimpressed field commander. It was a powerful cocktail, the Look, and Starscream knew better than to continue the argument.

He slumped back down with a huff and grabbed more aluminium chips.

The sudden commotion from the speakers suggested something was happening. The thirteen-rayed star swirled and morphed into a more functional column as the Primal Vanguard flowed out of the courtyard to the Temple gates, then came to a halt as they awaited the Prime’s leadership.

The Prime was going on foot, making a procession around the city of Iacon. In previous years, the Prime and his Vanguard restricted their circuit to the Senate, famous sites of Iacon, and embassies of other major cities. The procession thus conveniently served more as a glamour feature film for the rest of Cybertron than an actual religious ritual.

Even the lowest guttermech needed some pomp and grandeur, Starscream reflected. This was the Senate’s neat solution. Broadcasted to all screens, even public ones, and thus available to mechs from all walks of life. This golden, glittering celebration was the one bright thing in the lives of the little gears being worn away in the machinery of Cybertron, and just so happened to reinforce the reach of the Senate beyond Iacon into every other city.

Choirs and musicians from the Great Temple flanked the procession. Before the parade began, The Primal Hymns soared through the speakers as every bot present bowed their helms in solemn reverence. Those present in Iacon, that was.

The heathens (as Sunstorm was so very fond of calling them) in Gearbox, Vos, bowed their helms to pay more attention to the complementary aluminium chips at the centre of the table.

At one point, Dirge looked up long enough to mumble “Is it over yet?” around a mouthful of chip fragments.

“Nah.”

Dirge gave an indifferent grunt and reached out for another fistful of aluminium chips. Only Sunstorm sat above the scrum going on, lip wrinkled in distaste when the more ethereal notes of the Hymns were drowned out by crunching noises.

Two refills of aluminum chips later, the choir finally finished all twelve Grand Primal Hymns. Instead of taking a break, they bravely launched into the Iaconian anthem.

The table at Gearbox collectively groaned, then flagged a serving drone for another refill.

Finally, finally, the anthem came to an end (thirteen stanzas! Did Iaconians have any form of restraint at all?) and the call to march rang out.

By the time the parade slowly lurched to a start, Starscream was battling the queasiness of a tank filled too fast with too-rich fuel. He nursed some plain coolant as the camera panned over the snaking procession, then zoomed back to the Prime leading at the head.

Primes of past preferred to be transported on the pedes of the faithful in a sedan chair decorated to be a replica of their throne. The grainy footage of previous processions pulled up from Academy archives showed that while the concept was impressive in theory, it translated to a hilariously shaky ride. Even Sunstorm was forced to admit that it was an impractical way of travel. More recently, Sentinel and Optimus had taken to going on foot, although their looming presence did nothing to bring them closer to the bot on the street.

This Prime transformed in one fluid motion and jetted down the road, too fast for Starscream to even make out his alt-mode. Left behind was the entire procession, gaping in his exhaust.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long and sprawling plot, with considerable world-building planned and editing needed. So updates will probably be infrequent, but I may post snippets on tumblr to help my brainstorming along. Comments very much appreciated!


End file.
